


Exposure

by nerdyalice



Category: Being Human
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyalice/pseuds/nerdyalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, It's April and Mr Snow has a plan for the PM, a grey suited member of the civil service also happens to be at Downing street on that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Being Human and this is a little gory ;)

We tried to contain it, sweep the dust under the carpet of existence but we were fighting a losing battle. Each and everyday they slaughtered people, more than we had ever expected they were capable of.   
We’d known something was coming, a ship from Bolivia, the crew on board killed during its journey, something straight out of the pages of Dracula. With the Type 2’s love of theatrics I’m amazed they didn’t call it The Demeter.  
But none of us anticipated this.  
The carnage with intent for the entire world to see; the first few weeks we put out rumours, people didn’t want to believe what their own eyes were telling them. We were managing in our purpose, small victories, worked hard to gain. The world wasn’t ready; they wanted our lies to be the truth.  
Until that fateful day.

 

 

11th April 2012, London.

A meeting had been called, 10 Downing Street, operations room. The situation was critical. He’d been summoned there alongside the imbeciles from special branch and bizarrely the extra terrestrial obsessed nuts from unit, what use they’d be was a mystery, they never saw any action, the existence of beings from other planets was utter folly.  
He sat in the reception hall, holding a china tea cup with the precision of a surgeon handling a scalpel. He was two hours early for the appointment. He hadn’t slept for weeks, not since the old ones had landed in Barry. The spate of deaths that followed had been of a magnitude they’d never experienced before. The Type 3s flocked together to oppose them, led by a young male and female whose emails they had been screening. At least they’d had the decency to keep their fighting confined to darkness and alleyways for the most part.  
Then there came the suicides, people taking their own lives on mass, in the most gruesomely imaginable ways.  
He knew he was in trouble; the fact the meeting was with the Prime Minister himself instead of the Home Secretary was proof enough of that. It was the job of his department to keep these things under-wraps and even try to stop them altogether, a job in which he had failed. He could not quit now though, not whilst his country needed him. The gun locked away in the top draw of his desk in his home study could wait a week or two.   
He watched the screen nearest to him with little interest, the PM was holding a press conference a few rooms away, the televisions were showing the crew setting up and occasionally flicking back to the small audience of journalists that were already gathered and waiting, as well as the empty chairs there for those yet to arrive. Had Dominic Rook not been so deeply caught up in his own thoughts that morning and paid more attention to the screens he may have pondered why there was still a row of empty chairs just 15 minutes before the conference began. But he was too preoccupied with figuring out how to put a stop to the mess of Wales and possibly his own life to notice something his trained eye would have normally looked out for.

 

He was looking at his shoes, idly wondering whether his trusty brogues could’ve done with a polish, it wouldn’t do to go into such an important meeting with a scuffed toe cap, even if he had only been called there for a verbal caning, when his attention was drawn back to the screen. There must have been some subconscious trigger, like how you can be day dreaming miles away before realising the radio is playing your favourite song and snapping back into the room.  
The PM was standing at the lectern agog, whilst security men pulled at seeming thin air. Rook jumped up of the bench, the tea cup, saucer and spoon long since drained of its contents falling to the floor and shattering sending up shards or expensively hand painted porcelain in an almost slow motion explosion. Each of his long strides took on a dream like quality as he tried to run to the conference room, his thoughts focused on the floor plan of the building he had studied time and time again. Ever since the threat of the Old Ones had arrived on the shores of the isle a select team of his men had been placed at Buckingham Palace, under the rouse of ‘beefing up’ the security due to the riots, they were after all the best prepared people in the country to defend against such creatures, he had drawn up evacuation plans and emergency protocols for Number 10 too, but nobody would take him seriously at the time. Alistair Frith had laughed him out of his office when he’d suggested implementing further security procedures lest the supernatural try domination, he’d told him to take his ludicrous ideas of holy water and exorcisms back to dreadful cinematic productions. Rook ran through the corridors holding up his ID card to any staff members that tried to stop him from getting in the way, he entered the room just in time to witness the event that would forever change the kingdom, if not the world itself.

A red haired type 2 whose skin was so thin it was almost translucent and each luminously blue decrepit vein stuck out against his alabaster pale skin giving him the complexion of a stilton cheese.  
He was tall, slender and must’ve stood out like a saw thumb during his own time period, he could only be the infamous so called ‘King of the Vampires’ known to them as Mr Snow and recorded to be around three thousand years old. Rook wondered if the Ancient Greek myth about redheads turning into vampires after their deaths was caused by him or whether he was proof there had once been truth in it, perhaps there had been a type 2 at the time who had a penchant for recruiting gingers for their rarity and that Snow himself had been made just for that reason.  
He also held a passing resemblance to one of Dominic’s only friends in government Mycroft, with whom he often had tea and chess with, which was slightly odd to say the least. 

Rook stood in the doorway paralysed as it all unfolded in front of him, there were five type twos from what he could tell, he recognised one as Hal Yorke a vampire they had previously assumed dead before he himself had sighted him hiding behind some racking in the basement of a nightclub in Cardiff; after some digging it appeared he had spent the last 57 years dry and in hiding but had fallen off the wagon a matter of days before that appearance. He couldn’t tell whether the other three were also Old Ones or just henchmen, Rook suspected the latter, why put all your eggs in one basket after all? The vampiric henchmen were still battling with the security guards that had first alerted him something was amiss, even though it felt like much time had passed between getting from the reception hall to where he was now stood in reality it had been well under a minute. The journalists were quiet, some scribbling excitedly clearly glad of the scoop, others snapping photographs. Rook shook his head, they might not have realised the lack of the assailants’ image yet but soon they would. The PM was stood back keeping out the way. Within seconds things quickly took a turn for the worst. One of the vampires broke the neck of one of the security guards; another watched his co-worker go down in horror and produced a taser gun, sending a burly T2 down onto its knees. The brawling did not cease but Snow sauntered through it as though nothing was happening. Yorke lingered behind like some form of obedient puppy, looking on, trying not to catch attention. Snow calmly sidled up to where the PM was standing, realising something was very, very wrong with this man the PM stuttered to him to stop. “Shush now, it’ll all be over soon.” Snow replied his voice not imposing as Rook had expected, instead it just sounded bored and full of contempt, husky and world weary. In a larger room it wouldn’t have carried but the room only seated about twenty comfortably. Snow’s eyes took on their demonic black, which marked the creature out for what he was. He moved with a slithering grace, grabbing hold of the Prime Ministers throat with a black leather gloved hand, lifting him off the ground by it, slamming him into the wall and tearing into his flesh so hard with his fangs that he managed to remove his head from his shoulders with a few animalistic bites.  
The room echoed with screams and cries during the event. The T2 lackeys disposed of the security men whilst all eyes were on the front. One of the journalists, a young female who could have not long been out of University had jumped up out of her chair and tried to make a run for it, she was only a foot away from Rook who was still standing in the doorway when Hal Yorke grabbed hold of her arm, pulled her into him wrapped her ponytail around his hand forcing her head back and neck to be exposed before manifesting. Her body fell at Dominic’s feet, her blood splashing the cuffs of his trousers and covering his shoes. Yorke’s blood covered face was looking at him directly, black eyes locked with his blue. Dominic quivered but otherwise stood firm.  
He broke his gaze looking into the chaos erupting in the room beyond them.  
The lectern became a grisly podium for the decapitated head of the country’s leader, one of the snake like microphones bent back on itself so that it stuck out through the eye socket, the blood running down in lines pooling at the bottom and starting to trail its way out along the floor.  
Snow stood behind it, as though there was nothing wrong with the picture and that the impaled decoration was simply in the imagination of the audience. The cameras were still trained on the gory scenes as they had been throughout the entire sordid affair, Rook only hoped the live transmission had been cut when it became more of a horror film than a monotonous political broadcast but he was highly doubtful of that. The only consolation is that if the cameras were still rolling and allowing the nation live coverage, at least they were unable to record the vampire nonchalantly standing there without a care in the world. He gave a short speech which one or two of the journalists who hadn’t been entirely stupefied and shocked by what they had just witnessed to write down.  
He dismissed them all then, obviously releasing the news crews and free lance writers to go and spread the word that vampires really exist and that they were taking control in an aggravated dictatorship. Dominic Rook, the man who had seen it all, who had know of the existence of the supernatural since his childhood and had worked for the Department of Domestic Defence since leaving school, spending the last decade as it’s Permanent Secretary and was the youngest person to achieve such a role in the Civil Service; shook himself and stepped aside, letting the civilians rush past him, out into the world to further destroy every single lie and illusion he had worked so hard to create and upkeep.  
Every sacrifice he had made, every life he had taken, tearing up his soul and destroying his own humanity piece by piece, what had it all been for?   
He went through all the possible escape routes in his head, he could turn left up to Horse guards Parade although that would be busy, he could go right and run down Whitehall, Parliament Street, down past the Cenotaph and out near Westminster Bridge. But after all that what was the point?   
He’d have no job after this fiasco and Britain was about to take on a very grim shape.  
He was standing half hidden behind the door using it to shield his body; the young woman’s corpse had been trampled in the rush of the crowds escape and was not a pretty sight.  
“You can stop now.” He remained oblivious, assuming that the leader of the vampires was talking to one of his own.  
“You boy, man in grey hiding behind the door, you need not keep our secrets anymore. We did appreciate the effort of your little, spy group here cleaning up our dishes and wiping our arses free of excrement, but we have no need for you now. You are free to go.”  
“H..how?” His voice wasn’t as steady as he’d have liked, he came out into the room, surveying the scenes of carnage in what could only be described as shell shock; he hadn’t been so affected by the acts of supernaturals since his first field exercise, almost seventeen years prior. The king of the vampires met him in two paces, Yorke taking the typical second in command stance flanking him a little behind.  
“Not literally of course.”  
The vampire grinned, revealing his rotten teeth his fangs nearly as black as his eyes and his heart. The vile stench of his rancid breath poured out over the man in the grey suit. It was the last thing he felt.


End file.
